


The thing that could keep him from you

by felixruveris



Category: The White Queen - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:43:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixruveris/pseuds/felixruveris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth, pregnant with her second child, has a brief encounter as she rets in her childhood nursery.</p><p>"I will never not be your child, she thinks, and she is certain she hears him laugh."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The thing that could keep him from you

**Author's Note:**

> For Irina. This is awfully late (and mostly crappy. I did my best I swear. ç_ç) but happy birthday, honey.

The voice that whispers in her head, somewhere between ear and skull, when she feels even the slightest hint of guilt bears a striking resemblance to My Lady Margaret’s.

She wonders absentmindedly where the embodiment of said voice of conscience would be at the very moment: probably sitting in the little study she has had ready-made for use far before they had the chance to visit the palace (probably, the moment Lizzie planted the very idea in Henry's brain), penning herself the rules of their near future in her serpentine, neat handwriting (the shape of her “ _r_ ”s and “ _t_ ”s are precisely the same as Henry’s. For some reason, she always finds the notion endearing). She nods to herself: yes, it is far too soon for evening prayers, or for any other of the carefully picked activities My Lady indulges herself in, with Henry too far to discuss matters of state.

She loves My Lady Margaret, she does, but she is all but content to leave her to her work, in truth. Besides, she is ever-present in her mind whenever the tempting thought of transgression take roots there - however, it is easier and easier to play deaf, lately, with the child in her womb slowly sucking away her strength and gathering it in her swelling middle -a tender had caresses the slight curve under the fabric, glad for the lighter texture of it that mercifully allows some gentle breeze to slip underneath (sometimes, sending pleasant chills down her spine when she shifts position on the chair). Air is kinder in summer, the sun turns its face to them; whenever she turns, colors are a shade brighter. She has no need to move from her comfortable seat, though -now that she is past morning sickness, tiredness, the temptress she finds herself succumbing to more and more often, catches her ankles and her head. A familiar pattern she has resigned herself to.

No, no need to tease her light head. Her surroundings she knows by heart, from the fine, silken tapestries hung on the wall, lazily swinging when a breath of air meets them in its path, to the clicking of heels on the floor, carved by their very footsteps (the image of her mother surfaces from under the layers of memory. She feels a pang of pain at the idea of eradicating her from what little peace she has found for herself, but it is easily ignored when she pictures her cradling the baby in her slight arms, the permanent crease between her eyes made softer by the sight). In all honesty, it is simpler to see the room with eyes shut (easier to prevent unwanted tears from running down her face. She will not late her state turn her into a quivering mess. She is still a Queen, and all the more now she her first-born was given to State and another creature is on their way. Mothers just cannot cry, she has learned. Too many thing to mind for, for allowing that to happen).

How many times she has trodden around blindfolded, with only her siblings laughter for a guide - Cecily’s the most taunting of the all, of course- not hitting once the thick walls? Her hand strokes the bump tenderly, eyes squeezed shut and a smile dancing upon her lips as she paints a picture of  tiny feet taking their first steps on that very floor (she peremptorily dismisses the thought of that child she has given up, the price her blood demanded. The ever present languor she represses briskly: Arthur is well cared for and and a king cannot be shaped at his mother’s skirts, even Mother says so. She will be with him soon, Henry says, and she puts her faith in his inability to deny her any of her heart’s wishes. The longing is pushed down in the back of mind, and stays there, easier to embrace). Oh, the children in that nest will be hers alone. She can distinctly see herself ruffling her feathers as her chicks dance around her, calling for attention -she hopes for Mother’s fertility, good healthy and easy child-births.

It is an amusing picture, Henry has remarked when told. So might it be, but she can hardly think of a desire more burning - when it comes to chaste desires. She is sure All-Mighty God is not cross at her for her liking of the reproductive act (she crosses herself anyhow, in fear of offence). A smile creeps on her lips again and she hears the ghost of her father’s laugh (bitter and sweet echo in her head). Oh, how he would have laughed at this daughter of his, Madame la Dauphine, finding her so interested in the bedroom skirmishes. One must beget children somehow, after all, he would say, his face between mischievous and good-natured amusement. He would brush away the red bloom on her cheek with the back of her hand, be proud of her childbearing hips. She takes after her mother, he would say (she is crying. She can feel the wetness gathering on her chin, hanging there and dropping on her folded hands -and she can’t bring herself to raise one and clean off the evidence of her foolishness, for some reason. She sets her jaw and she chews on the inside of her cheek, provoking a dull sort of pain).

Someone does it for her, though.

She is so startled, at firs, she does not move a muscle, nor jerks away. Not one of her women would dare to such a show of intimacy; My Lady Margaret would squeeze her hand, ignoring the physical signs of weakness, be them hers or others’; Henry is far, Mother is farther. She stays motionless, the hint of touch still wiping away the warm, tickling droplets from her chin.

_"When weeping, your nose goes the exact shade of Lancaster's red."_

Her stomach closes shut, as shut as her eyes. She dares not open them and see -she only lets herself inhaling deeply, partly because she feels like drowning and partly looking for a memory, a scent she knows as well as her child’s. _“Now, not even the shift in your circumstances would make you appreciative of that, would it, however appropriate? Our Lord's mark for a Beaufort in law."_ There is laughter in his voice, not a fain echo, but strong and sure as in her memories. Mayhaps, mayhaps she called him back from that place in her head where her shattered dreams are stored, and broke promises. Doubting her own sanity, she feels she will start shaking; the hand, the very physical touch of it, caresses the top of her forehead, the locks of hair allowed to sight.

 _"Are you true?"_ , she whispers -the fright of a mere daydream is too much of politeness and titles.

 _"Mostly."_ The answer comes, more speculative, as if he doesn't know himself. _"You are a clever girl, madame la Dauphine, are you not? Assume We are the Eurydice to your Orpheus, then."_ She remembers the tale, of course she remembers. She needs not look, she tells herself - she dares not (probably would not even if she could. She lacks the heart for it).

 _"It has been long since anyone used that title."_ She forces the words out of her throat. Nobody would ever again. He snorts in contempt. _"The fault is on Us for putting our trust into French usurpers. There is no fool like a fool with a crown."_ She could picture the grimace in his beautiful face (the youthful, healthy features of his better days, not the sick pallor Death painted on his cheeks). _"Had things been different, you would have sat on that throne, at the cost of carrying you Ourselves across the Channel. But in truth"_ , again, the voice grows pensive, " _Chance, as it often happens, has better judgment than Us. This country is not ready for a prodigal daughter, not even a French one. True to its nature, our folk will get your hands full as it is, no need to look for war outside our barriers. We had wished you a peaceful flock to watch over",_ he sounds sad _, now, melancholy, "but you are Our daughter -let nobody, nobody- tell you otherwise."_ Her thoughts rush back to white, unnaturally curved corpse, smeared with dirt and half covered in leaves on a naked field, far away - nothing she has seen herself but she might as well.

It matters not, she has told herself over and over in those days where she could not tell morning from dusk -yet every hour was a painful stab. A signature on a piece of paper, it matters not. It had mattered, she admits now. Shame colors her cheeks -even now she thinks of Mother and her burdens and she is so unworthy. The pad of a finger, cool, smooth, dry, follows the ghost of her cheekbone.

 _"You are so like Us, child. Woman."_ He chuckles. _"It strikes Us difficult to see you as such. A woman with child. " She detects an echo of longing. "And Us, you made Us a grandfather! And We are still so young!"_ There such outrage, such conceit in his voice she forgets tears and shame and guilt and laughs. She catches herself a moment before opening her eyes and puts a hand over them, digging fingers in the thin flesh of her temples. _"Can I at least touch you?"_ she asks, nearly in a sob. She dares reaching blindly with her free hand and pluck the air where his harm should be. She grits her teeth in sudden anger - how cruel to dangle him under her nose so, but death, it seems and life are just as cruel.

 _"Oh, if your mother could see you now, suddenly a babe again when We were about to persuade ourselves you are all grown - scowling. How improper of you, Bessie dear."_ He's teasing her and she would resent him if he wasn't gently stroking her belly, the exact spot where she sometimes perceives her child flutter, turning her a crying mess all over again. She wants to ask, do you go to her as well and soothe her pain, but she stay silent. Her insides are on the verge of pouring out of her eyes, oh but her eyelids are so squeezed she pushed it all back down her throat. Father, he does not sound unhappy in the slightest, as he is chuckling secretly - the evidence he knows something she does not. He must be reading her face and she pictures his cunning smile, his I know nothing look of mischief she spots on Cecily's face. _"We cannot tell. Just know We are pleased Tudor blood still has not won this battle", he cups her stomach more firmly. "This lass will give someone their share of headaches."_

 _She! "You are mistaken, Father. That battle was lost. The white rose weathered,"_ she points out, matter-of-factly. Their line is dead. She feels him shrugging. _"Finally, a name is but a name. Look at your husband, little one, the Welsh Dragon. Tell Us, do scales hide under his shirt? Does he breath fire when you lock lips?"_

She is red again. _"Father."_ His face is half amusement, half grimace. _"Now, now, you think Us old. Perhaps We are, but not enough We are forgetful. Our shared blood runs in your veins - Plantagenet fire under your Woodville stillness, Plantagenet anger if your husband ever finds it in himself to defy you, and yes, Plantagenet hunger, did not escape you. You will have many children and grow round and pink. He will make sure of that, the lad. He is not that bad, I must admit."_ It costs him great deal. Still, he's stroking her belly and the York child it carries not tensely, but even lazily, like a cat. " _He gets the job done, in that frigid, Tudor way of his. Oh but I know -not that frigid with the Heir in the cradle and a Queen in the belly, and that smile on your lips. Fair enough, my love. I am content."_

She wonders if she ever heard him yous _"I"_ -but then, the prowess of her emotions fully hits her chest like a caress sprung from a clenched fist, and she barely thinks of anything else (she wants to sob so shamelessly she even catches My Lady Conscience calling her name, again and again and again).

She opens her eyes and tears spill out. The room is a blur and a different shade of light pools down from the window. A gentle breeze swings the back of her veil, insinuating itself under the layers of her headdress, playing with the curls on the nape of her neck. A white piece of fabric and My Lady Margaret's extended hand. She takes a ragged breath, drying the wetness on her cheeks, and suddenly she sees herself from the outside, blowing her running nose, in her nursery with her Ladyship's embroidered handkerchief. _I will never not be your child_ , she thinks, and she is certain she hears him laugh.


End file.
